


Ghosts

by dalula



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cutting, Gen, Minor Mituna Captor/Kurloz Makara, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalula/pseuds/dalula
Summary: It’s not fair to him, you know that. Just like you know how much it hurts him to undress you and see the jagged arrangement of cicatrix over your skin and not know how to help you.You don’t know how to help you either.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> this is a vent fic ┏༼ ◉ ╭╮ ◉༽┓

The blade hurts as it slices through your skin. With it, though, brings the feeling of addictive weightlessness you’ve become so used to. All the stresses that have been dragging you down all day are gone within a few brushes of the razor. You’ve chosen your forearm today; it’s a classic after all. You like having the gashes where you can see them just in case you forget what a piece of shit you are. Any time you need a reminder to stop being such a motherfucking failure all the damn time you can dig your fingers into the lacerations and feel that sharp pain as the wounds are reopened, watch the blood seep into the darkness of your clothes. You wear black for a reason.

It’s not always about punishing yourself, though. There’s a creativity to the placement, to the designs you etch. Sometimes you just like seeing patterns ripped into your skin. Markings, memories and symbols of what’s important to you scattered over your grey canvas forever. Mituna’s name is etched into the dorsal of your left hand, even years after healing you can still make out the ridged lines if you’re in the right light. You look at it, trace over the letters when you feel at your worst. He hates the scar, just like he hates your habit, and brings it up often during your feelings jams, begging you to stop. But you can’t. Well, you _can_ but why deny yourself something that makes you feel so good? You simply don’t _want_ to stop and that’s the truth you won’t admit.

It’s not fair to him, you know that. Just like you know how much it hurts him to undress you and see the jagged arrangement of cicatrix over your skin and not know how to help you.

You don’t know how to help you either.

So, you cut and carve up your skin until you’re spilling purple over the sheets, soaking in the ethereal, breathlessness you have only found in the freedom of your knife.

It’s like the high you get from Meulin’s catnip except it satisfies your self-hatred too. You don’t understand why one is considered cool and the other taboo, just like you don’t understand the concerned looks people give you when they see your scars. You can fuck up your body however you want. No one recoils at your tattoos, even as mirthfully perverse as they are, but they see a sign of weakness and suddenly no one can meet your eye. It would be funny to you if their surface-level pity didn’t irk you so much.

A few have approached you about it, like Porrim and Damara. The braver ones of your group. But they accepted all too easily that this was just another one of your Makara-branded fucked up antics. _Oh, he cuts himself for fun? Sounds about right._ They couldn’t conceive that you need to be cleansed, that if you don’t keep yourself in line that no one will. You fuck up all too often, you’re unworthy to help your Lord achieve his most wicked of missions but if you repent enough for your sins then there might be a chance you’ll be forgiven.

But that’s the neverending pattern, isn’t it? You’re always making mistakes. No matter how much you plan or how many times you tell yourself that you won’t disgrace yourself again, you always manage it. In moments of weakness, you let your paranoia, fear and rage make the decisions for you. You allow them to control you. They - _you -_ ruin everything. All it takes is one misplaced move. Everything over, just like that. Destroyed because of a childish burst of emotion or a passing sensation. If only you could keep your motherfucking maw closed, your blasphemous hands still then it wouldn’t come to _this_. The bleeding and the ripping, the pain and the anguish. You just want to be _good_.

You're so tired. So fucking sick of hating yourself, of doubting every decision you make. You've accepted that you'll always fuck up, you'll always disappoint, it doesn't make it any easier when you do. What the fuck is wrong with you? Why must you overthink every word, every action, every look? Why can't you just _live_?

It's ridiculous, though, to want more. To think you deserve more. You don't. As useless, pathetic and weak as you are you don't deserve motherfucking anything from anybody. You're worth nothing, haven't you learnt that by now? The unceasing cycle of you ruining everything hasn't made that clear? Or has it not managed to penetrate your thick skull yet? You open your mouth, you speak your mind, you take action and, wow! What a surprise, everything is destroyed. If only you had some control over your rage and paranoia, you might manage to do something right for once. Do as you're told, have no agency. Your will belongs to your Lord and him alone.

Mituna is coming over tonight and he’ll chastise you over the new marks like he always does, even while he cleans and wraps them and kisses away your tears. He’ll tell you how precious you are, how he forgives you and loves you but you won’t take in a single word. A part of you will never believe him, even as every whisper and action bursts with sincerity. The voice in your head tells you not to trust, that you’re best alone, that you break everything you touch. And it’s right, it’s always right. You come into people's lives and ruin them, leave them wrecked and incomplete. If only you weren't so selfish and had the will power to stay away they might've been alright. But nothing can ever go back to how it was, there is no clean slate.

If you cut you disappoint Mituna, if you don’t then you feel as if the walls are closing in. There is no winning for you. This revelation brings you a resigned sense of peace. It means your hand doesn’t hesitate as it brings down the sharp blade to your arm. It doesn’t flinch as it drags fresh incisions over paled, toughened lines of old trauma. And it doesn’t stop until the familiar freedom overtakes you.

You don’t remember the last time you felt so good.

**Author's Note:**

> *projects onto kurloz makara* *projects onto kurloz makara* *projects onto kurloz makara* *projects onto kur


End file.
